an array of days

we all of us have a small array of days (how small, how) some much more so than others and were we/I able (un-blinded by-the-by) to see them stretch before/behind we would be numbed (benumbed) to find nothing stretching for ever (never, but nevermind) once we awake (we still sleepers) from our sleeping days we … Continue reading an array of days

revolutions

I could not come to you unbroken - just as day breaks herself brightly upon the crests of dark rises and every day the earth turns to give her credence and then turns again away while she spills into oblivion - but like her I gather in soundless profundity the offered hours in piles against … Continue reading revolutions

how like waves the days rise and rush, fold and founder, in this quieter collapse of perceived shores those hours I shooed and shushed, now distant as gulls whose calls sound time's dying, find placid flight along the cooler drifts of our remembrance I trail you behind like summer at September's end © Sarah Whiteley

at peace

it's been a year, my dear, since I shut the garden gate behind and shooed the wounded dreams away to trail mournful after happenstance and the ungraceful slant of those days no more than small disturbances now they rustle upon the edges of my feathers and along the bending tips of my grass there are … Continue reading at peace

after stillness

for a second, sleep, and the stillness of stars waiting and after stillness, waning what then beyond this arrested breath? what then after the suspended beating from quiet breast? what remembrance moon? or trees that grew beyond these windows? or flowers passed on pebbled paths through sweetly scented spring? after these walls, what? but then … Continue reading after stillness

a song of home

song in silvery descent beats in sweet repeats the tug of lodestones, the clamant lure of westward-leading winding winds, I sing the binding beck of springing grove and blooming troves of heather, let the tune renew the sweet enchantments the road has written upon my straying shade, in engaging turns, in immeasurable measure, render the … Continue reading a song of home

untitled

crow night's star-dusted feathers drape her blue-black whisperings covering over the green of gloaming in the absence of light I fall to forgetting eyes tight-closed against the possibility of loss feather-tipped unknowing brushes away the dust of hope nothing gold can stay? then I pray in the wake of crow night's flight as she drags … Continue reading untitled

untitled

no one expects to have their life's clock ripped from them by sterilized men with sterilized smiles the thin hands mercilessly pushed forward and around, around around, around stop! how many years are now lost to that single fingered motion of dancing the black whiskers past minutes and seconds to the right, down, back up, … Continue reading untitled